UC-NRLF                  ^^^^^W 

ITALY  IN  ARMS 

' 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY 
CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


ITALY  IN  ARMS 


BOOKS  BY 
MR.   CLTNTON  SCOLLARD 

Songs  of  a  Syrian  Lover.    4s.  net 
ELKIN  MATTHEWS,  London 

The  Lyric  Bough.     $1.00  net 

Voices  and  Visions.     $1  00  net 
SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &  CO. 

Poems.     $1.25  net 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  CO. 

Vale  of  Shadows.     .60  net 

LAURENCE  J.  GOMME 


ITALY  IN  ARMS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 
CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


NEW  YORK 

GOMME  &  MARSHALL 
1915 


Copyright,  1915,  by  Gomme  §  Marshall 


Italia,  you  hold  for  me 
The  glamour  of  antiquity; 
Beauty  inviolate  as  the  sea. 

Yours  are  the  meshes  of  a  spell 
Fragile  and  yet  infrangible; 
Subtle  as  music  from  a  shell. 

Around  you  hangs  the  aureole 
Of  art,  and  for  my  sense  and  soul 
You  are  for  ever  more  the  goal! 


331059 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Italy  in   Aems 7 

Bella  Garda 10 

Out  of  Rome 12 

A  Serenade 13 

Dolce   Far  Niente 15 

A  Venetian   Sunset 17 

There  is  a  Pool  on  Garda 18 

Saint  Anthony  of  Padua 19 

Ashes  from  a  Cinerary  Urn 20 

Wind  of  the  Dawn 21 

The  Dance  of  the  Olives 22 

A    Bambino 23 

The  Ponale   Road 24 

Memories  of  Como 27 

Cypresses 29 

Tremosine 31 

At  Paestum 33 

At  Twilight-tide  Upon  Como's  Breast  ....  34 

The  House  of  Dante 35 

A  Sea-gull  on  Lake  Garda 37 

Let  There  Be  Dreams  To-day 39 

Impressions 42 

The  Bastion 44 

A  Sailor 46 

Gabriel 47 

At  the  Vatican 48 

A  Saint 49 

5 


PAOK 

So  We  Came  to  Malcesine 50 

Primayera 51 

Tue  Dancing  Faun 52 

A  Lover  of  Lucrezia 55 

Benvbnuto ^ 

POPPEA 57 

A  Roman  Twilight 58 

A  Cripple 59 

A  Mountebank 60 

Enigma 61 

Chimes  at  Padua G2 

LlONETTO 63 


ITALY  IN  ARMS 

Of  all  my  dreams  by  night  and  day, 
One  dream  will  evermore  return, 

The  dream  of  Italy  in  May; 
The  sky  a  brimming  azure  urn 
Where  lights  of  amber  brood  and  burn; 

The  doves  about  San  Marco's  square, 
The  swimming  Campanile  tower, 
The  giants,  hammering  out  the  hour, 
The  palaces,  the  bright  lagoons, 

The  gondolas  gliding  here  and  there 

Upon  the  tide  that  sways  and  swoons. 

The  domes  of  San  Antonio, 

Where  Padua  'mid  her  mulberry  trees 
Reclines;  Adige's  crescent  flow 

Beneath  Verona's  balconies; 

Rich  Florence  of  the  Medicis; 
Siena's  stairlike  streets  that  climb 

From  hill  to  hill;  Assisi  well 

Remembering  the  holy  spell 

Of  rapt  Saint  Francis;  with  her  crown 
Of  battlements,  embossed  by  time, 
Stern  old  Perugia  looking  down. 


Then,  mother  of  great  empires.  Rome, 

City  of  the  majestic  past, 
That  o'er  far  leagues  of  alien  foam 

The  shadow  of  her  eagles  cast, 

Imperious  still;  impending,  vast, 
The  Colosseum's  curving  line; 

Pillar  and  arch  and  colonnade; 

Saint  Peter's  consecrated  shade, 
And  Hadrian's  tomb  where  Tiber  strays; 
The  ruins  on  the  Palatine 

With  all  their  memories  of  dead  days. 

And  Naples,  with  her  sapphire  arc 
Of  bay,  her  perfect  sweep  of  shore; 

Above  her,  like  a  demon  stark, 
The  dark  fire  mountain  evermore 
Looming  portentous,  as  of  yore; 

Fair  Capri  with  her  cliffs  and  caves; 
Salerno  drowsing  'mid  her  vines 
And  olives,  and  the  shattered  shrines 

Of  PaBstum  where  the  gray  ghosts  tread, 

And  where  the  wilding  rose  still  waves 
As  when  by  Greek  girls  garlanded. 

But  hark!     What  sound  the  ear  dismays, 

Mine  Italy,  mine  Italy? 
Thou  that  wert  wrapt  in  peace,  the  haze 

Of  loveliness  spread  over  thee! 

8 


Yet  since  the  grapple  needs  must  be, 
I  who  have  wandered  in  the  night 
With  Dante,  Petrarch's  Laura  known, 
Seen  Vallombrosa  's  groves  breeze  blown, 
Met  Angelo  and  Kaphael, 
Against  iconoclastic  might 

In  this  grim  hour  must  wish  thee  well! 


BELLA  GARDA 

Over  Riva  La  Rochetta  rises  with   its   craggy 

crown, 
On  the  quiet  mountain  village  from  its  summit 

sheer  looks  down, 
Flings  the  sunlight,  flings  the  moonlight,  back 

from  climbing  cliffs  of  brown. 

At  its  base  the  olives  silver,  and  the  fleet  barks 

come  and  go, 
With   their  sails  of  tawny  saffron,  with   their 

slanted  sails  of  snow, 
Straining  in  the  winds  of  morning,  drooping  in 

the  even  glow. 

All  along  the  blue  lake's  borders  toss  the  red 

buoys  with  the  tide, 
Ever  shifting,  ever  changing  through  the  luring 

hues  that  hide 
In  the  bosom  of  the  sapphire,  in  the  turquoise 

glorified. 

Oleanders  in  the  gardens  with  the  bland  blush 

roses  vie, 
And  the  palm  trees  throw  their  shadows,  and 

the  lizards  laze  and  lie 
In  the  sun  whose  golden  sceptre  rules  an  arc  of 

stainless  sky. 

10 


You  may  hear  the  boatmen  calling,  you  may 
hear  the  boatmen  sing 

Songs  of  love  and  songs  of  longing  as  the  swal- 
lows wing  and  wing, 

And  the  air  that  breathes  about  you  is  the  air 
of  endless  spring. 

And  that  titan,  Monte  Baldo,  with  its  heights  of 
shine  and  shade, 

Looms  beyond  the  fair  lake's  bosom,  in  its  maj- 
esty arrayed, 

Crests  and  bastions,  sheer  abysses,  and  the  fur- 
rows God  has  made. 

Bella   Garda!     Bella   Garda!     Set  forevermore 

apart 
In  that  temple  we  call  beauty,  far  beyond  the 

reach  of  art, 
While  I  tread  the  world  of  mortals  you  will  hold 

in  thrall  my  heart ! 


11 


OUT  OF  ROME 

Out  of  Rome  they  march  as  when 
Scipio  led  his  serried  men, 

While  the  cry  of  "Viva!  Viva!" 
Rings  again  and  yet  again. 

They,  in  dreams  of  high  desire, 
Rousing  them  to  holy  ire, 

On  the  Capitolian  altars 
Have  beheld  the  vestal  fire. 

Rear  and  vanguard,  first  and  last, 
They  have  caught  the  virile,  vast, 

Emulous  centurion  ardor 
From  some  legion  of  the  past. 

"Win  they  laurel  wreath  or  rue, 
We  must  feel  that  this  is  true, 

That  the  ancient  Roman  valor 
Thrills  through  Italy  anew! 


\2 


A  SERENADE 

From  the  mountain's  purple  shade, 
Down  the  path  the  moonbeams  made, 
Came  the  drifting  boatmen  singing 
Such  a  tuneful  serenade. 

Yearning  was  the  plaintive  strain, 
Tender  was  the  low  refrain, — 

Napoli,  oh,  Napoli! 
Love  and  longing  blent  with  pain. 

All  the  passion  of  their  race 
Burned  on  each  transfigured  face ; 

Napoli,  oh,  Napoli! 
Ah,  the  well-beloved  place! 

Then  the  music  faded  far 
Till  it  seemed  as  though  a  star 

{Napoli,  oh,  Napoli!) 
Must  be  breathing  each  sweet  bar. 

Gone! — and  yet  some  distant  height 
Caught  the  cry  for  lost  delight, — 

Napoli,  oh,  Napoli! — 
Spanning  the  abyss  of  night. 


13 


And  I  heard  it  float  in  dreams 
Down  the  tranquil  slumber-streams 

(Napoli,  oh,  Napoli!) 
Till  the  morning  showed  its  beams. 

Little  training,  less  of  art, 

Just  the  homesick  hunger-smart, — 

Napoli,  oh,  Napoli! — 
Just  the  outcry  of  the  heart ! 


14 


DOLCE  FAR  NIENTE 

The  book  unconned  is  cast  aside, 
The  moment  is  not  meet  for  prose ; 

I  read  a  rhyme  upon  the  tide 

That  just  below  me  ebbs  and  flows. 

The  arching  sky  is  sapphire-fair, 
The  breeze  is  like  a  low  refrain ; 

There  is  a  perfume  in  the  air 
Like  opening  roses  after  rain. 

I  mark,  along  the  middle  slopes, 

The  clustering  groves  of  chestnuts  climb, 
Thick  as  a  young  girl 's  budding  hopes 

When  life  is  at  the  pairing-time. 

And,  scaling  height  by  terraced  height, 
Through  jagged  valleys  reaching  down, 

I  see  the  javelins  of  light 

Shatter  upon  the  cliffs  of  brown. 

Or,  gliding  with  the  boats  that  pass, 

In  idle  errantry  I  go 
Toward  Alpine  mountain-peaks  that  mass 

Their  chill  white  pyramids  of  snow ; 


15 


Or  toward  that  golden  south  that  lies 
'Twixt  segments  of  the  shining  sea, 

And  beckons  on  with  dusk-dark  eyes 
Across  the  plains  of  Lombardy. 

I  know  the  ripe  delight  of  life 
No  cloud-encompassed  clime  can  give ; 

Here  all  the  radiance  is  rife 

That  elsewhere  seems  so  fugitive. 

Then  lengthen  out,  oh,  afternoon, 
Nor  wane  and  fade,  oh,  amber  glow, 

But  keep  the  year  forever  June 
Above  dream-fair  Bellagio ! 


16 


A  VENETIAN  SUNSET 

On  the  bright  bosom  of  the  broad  lagoon 

Rocked  by  the  tide  we  lay, 
And  watched  the  fading  of  the  afternoon. 

In  golden  calm  away. 

The  water  caught  the  fair  faint  hues  of  rose, 

Then  flamed  to  ruby  fire 
That  touched  and  lingered  on  the  marble  snows 

Of  wall  and  dome  and  spire. 

A  graceful  bark,  with  saffron  sails  outflung, 

Swept  toward  the  ancient  mart, 
And  poised  a  moment,  like  a  bird,  and  hung 

Full  in  the  sunset's  heart. 

A  dull  gun  boomed,  and,  as  the  echo  ceased, 

O'er  the  low  dunes  afar, 
Lambent  and  large  from  out  the  darkened  east, 

Leaped  night's  first  star. 


17 


THERE  IS  A  POOL  ON  GARDA 

There  is  a  pool  on  Garda, 

'Tis  fashioned  by  the  moon 
That  climbs  above  the  mountain's  crest 

What  time  the  night  birds  croon ; 
The  pool  is  paved  with  silver 

Inwrought  with  burnished  gold, 
And  in  its  deeps  a  treasure  sleeps 

The  goblins  stored  of  old. 

There  is  a  pool  on  Garda, 

It  will  elude  you  still 
Ply  you  the  oar  from  shore  to  shore 

With  howe'er  strong  a  will; 
'Twill  flee  you  like  a  phantom, 

'Twill  lead  you  on  and  on ; 
A  luring  light,  'twill  fade  from  sight 

What  time  the  moon  is  gone. 

There  is  a  pool  on  Garda, 

You'll  see  it  in  your  dreams; 
'Tis  shaped  of  silvery  glamour, 

'Tis  fused  of  golden  beams. 
Once  you  have  caught  the  vision, 

The  fair  elusive  ray, 
'Twill  haunt  your  brain  like  some  sweet  strain 

Forever  and  a  day ! 


18 


SAINT  ANTHONY  OF  PADUA 

Saint  Anthony,  beneath  those  soaring  domes 
That  in  your  memory  pious  hands  upreared, 
I  heard  to-day  the  music  of  the  mass, 
And  saw  the  throng  in  adoration  bow, — 
The  pleasure-loving  folk  of  Padua. 
The  crimson  glamour  of  the  altar  lights, 
The  mellow  tinkle  of  the  altar  bells, 
The  lifting  of  the  consecrated  Host, 
And  the  engirdling  hush  wherethrough  the  day, 
From  windows  high-set  in  the  mighty  nave, 
Sifted  the  softened  glory  of  its  gold, — 
All  blended  in  a  perfect  harmony. 
Here,  where  in  speaking  marble  your  sweet  deeds 
Are  told  so  marvellously,  your  bones  repose, 
Though  noble  actions  need  no  monument, 
About  you  Padua,  rich  with  the  great  past, 
Heaped  with  memorials  of  the  days  that  were, 
When  out  of  Italy  burst  the  flower  of  art, 
Pulses  and  throbs ;  and  yet  in  the  tense  press 
Naught  seems  so  vital,  so  full-filled  with  soul, 
As  you,  deep-sepulchred  although  you  are 
Beneath  the  lift  of  your  stupendous  domes ! 
So  evermore  life  triumphs  over  death. 


19 


ASHES  FROM  A  CINERARY  URN 

(Campo  Santo  di  Salo) 

These  flakes  of  ashes  that  are  strewn  to-day 
About  the  crimson  roses  at  our  feet, 
Once  plucked  the  rose  of  life  and  found  it 
sweet, 
Once  dreamed  the  dream  of  life  and  found  it 

gay. 
Then  what  more  fitting  tribute  than  to  lay 
Them  round  the  rose  which  is  the  red  pulse- 
beat 
Of  sentient  earth,  a  harmony  complete 
Expressed  in  bloom,  re-bourgeoning  alway! 

So  shall  we  see  with  every  opening  June, 
"When  crescent  hangs  the  moon  at  twilight's 
close, 
And  pale  moths  flutter  and  the  hill-winds  swoon, 
And  down  the  garden  path  the  glowworm 
glows, 
And  every  breath  we  breathe  is  as  a  boon, 
A  heart  re-kindled  with  the  kindling  rose ! 


20 


WIND  OF  THE  DAWN 

0  golden  wind  of  the  dawn,  with  your  savor  of 

the  sea, 
Your  voice,  like  a  cry  in  the  night,  lays  hold  of 

the  heart  of  me ! 
Sings — 0  the  magic  things! — sings  of  Italy! 

0  golden  wind  of  the  dawn,  with  your  savor  of 

the  sun, 
Your  voice,  like  the  sighing  of  palms,  to  my 

yearning  heart  has  won ! 
Sings — 0  the  magic  things  that  I  dream  upon! 

0  golden  wind  of  the  dawn,  from  that  olden, 
golden  shore, 

May  your  voice  to  my  heart  cry  on  till  the  voy- 
age of  my  life  be  o'er, 

And  then — and  then — cry  f orevermore ! 


21 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  OLIVES 

When  at  noontide  up  Lake  Garda  (Bella  Garda) 
creeps  the  wind, 
Then  each  little  silvery  olive  sets  its  nimble 
leaves  to  dance; 
How  they  trip  it  and  they  skip  it  in  a  measure 
unconfined ! 
Hands  across  in  blithe  abandon,  they  retreat 
and  they  advance. 

Every  bough  on  Mount  Brione  (oh,  the  branches 
that  are  there ! ) 
Every  spray  where  haughty  Trenno  looks  on 
Riva's  fruited  plain, 
How  they  amble,  how  they  gambol,  how  they 
part  and  how  they  pair, 
To  the  lisping  and  the  crisping  of  the  mur- 
murous refrain! 

I  shall  see  them  clear  in  visions  in  a  country 
far  away, 
If    I    close    my    eyes   at   noontide — all    their 
wavering  expanse — 
And  should  frolic  breezes  whisper  I  shall  smile 
and  I  shall  say: 
"Now  the  south  wind  creeps  up  Garda,  and 
the  olives  are  a-dance!" 


22 


A  BAMBINO 

In  Siena,  by  the  stately  Duomo, 

(Variant  black  and  white  the  marble  pile!) 
Where,  'mid  pomp  of  popes,  an  "Ecce  Homo" 

Looks  adown  one  dim  sequestrate  aisle 

I  beheld  a  maid  with  her  bambino, 
Round   whose  tiny  head   was  aureoled 

Such  a  radiant  light  as  the  Trentino 

Sees  when  morning  tips  its  peaks  with  gold. 

Ah,  I  thought,  had  I  but  Veronese's 

Touch,  or  flawless  Rafaele's  skill, 
I  might  shape  a  faultless  face  whose  praises 

On  the  winds  around  the  earth  would  thrill! 

Yet  unto  the  sweet  unconscious  mother 
It  would  mean,  by  doting  love  beguiled, 

(Mary  Mother  was  but  such  another!) 
Just  the  ecstatic  wonder  of  the  child. 


23 


THE  PONALE  ROAD 

(Fra  Bartolomeo  in  Riva  to  Fra  Anselmo  in 
Padua) 

Do  you  remember  the  Ponale  Road, 
And  how  its  coils  along  Rochetta's  face 
Above  the  blue  of  Garda's  bosom  rise? 
Then  how  it  winds,  in  serpentine  ascent, 
High  through  the  mountain  cleft  beneath  the 

frown 
Of  overhanging  crags  and  cliffs  and  peaks, 
Until  in  long  white  loops  it  drops  away 
To  where  Lake  Ledro  like  a  jewel  lies, 
Its  liquid  sapphire  girt  with  emerald? 
I  know  you  must  recall,  although  the  years 
Seem  mist-enshrouded  since  we  twain  were  boys, 
And  in  the  upland  meadows  herded  goats 
Far  above  Trenno,  and,  when  autumn's  hand 
Tinted  the  sweeping  slopes  with  russet-gold, 
Gathered  the  chestnuts  in  the  rustling  aisles. 
Such  buoyant  days! 

O'er  Monte  Baldo  still 
The  sunrise  beacons  like  the  oriflamme 
Of  God,  and  still,  beguiled  by  love,  the  moon 
Silvers  a  path  for  lovers  on  the  lake. 

But  the  Ponale  Road. A  week  agone, 

In  the  soft  light  of  failing  afternoon, 

24, 


I  wandered  forth  from  Riva.     Sarca's  plain, 
And  Arco's  ancient  castellated  crest, 
Dozed  in  the  sun,  but  La  Rochetta  flung 
Wide  on  the  lake  its  pyramid  of  shade. 
As  I  strode  up  and  on,  the  peasants  passed, 
Still  faring  market-ward  with  oil  and  wine, 
Seeking  the  booths  within  the  little  square 
'Neath  Santa  Maria.     There  was  scarce  a  sound, 
Save  for  the  treble  of  a  mountain  stream 
Amid  the  rocks,  or  some  faint  boatman's  call 
Borne  from  below  by  echo.     I  plucked  a  flower, 
A  tiny  whorl  that  blushed  as  does  the  rose, 
And  bore  it  with  me  as  I  walked  along, 
Musing  upon  its  beauty,  and  how  God 
Makes  all  the  world  his  garden,  if  but  man 
Looks  with  observant  eyes.     And  so  I  came 
To  where  a  promontory  from  the  cliff 
Beetles,  and  leaned  upon  the  barrier  wall 
Guarding  the  curve  of  the  Ponale  Road. 
And  there  I  watched  the  ochre  and  saffron  sails 
Skimming  toward  Torbole,  saw  the  olive  boughs 
On  Mount  Brione  waver  in  the  wind, 
And  purple   shadows  lengthen  on  the  lake. 
Rousing  from  re  very,  I  was  aware  of  one 
Who  stood  beside  me,  swarthy,  heavy-browed, 
Threat  looming  from  the  caverns  of  his  eyes, 
Black  Andrea  of  Molina,  he  who  wed 
Anita. — I  have  told  you  how  I  loved 
And  lost  Anita,  ere  we  pledged  our  vows 

25 


Jointly  to  heaven.     I  have  heard  it  said 
He  was  her  death. 

A  cunning,  crooked  smile 
Twisted  his  cruel  lips;  his  hairy  hands 
Twitched     like    an    ape's.     "Now,    by    God's 

wounds,"  he  cried, 
1 '  You  whose  sleek  face  she  never  ceased  to  love 
Shall   go    to    meet   her!"     And   with    that   we 

clutched, 
And  strained  against  the  wall  and  turned  and 

writhed, 
Until  he  slipped  and  toppled  and  whirled  down — 
Down — down — his  body  bounding  like  a  ball 
From  jutting  crag  to   crag;   then   there  were 

bubbles, 
And  ripples — ripples — widening  on  the  lake. 

Friend  of  my  youth,  offer  for  me  a  prayer 
Each  day  at  matin-hour,  and  when  the  eve 
Deepens  the  dusk  about  II   Santo 's  shrines, 
And  the  tall  tapers  on  the  altars  burn, 
And  with  the  incense  holier  grows  the  air, 
Renew  your  supplication,  lest  my  soul 
Be  plunged  in  the  red  pit! 


26 


MEMORIES  OF  COMO 

Triumphant  Autumn  sweeps  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  works  swift  magic  with  her  wand  of  fire ; 

She  fills  the  hollows  of  the  hills  once  more 
With  amethyst,  and  like  a  golden  lyre 
The  lyric  woodlands  murmur  and  suspire. 

I   listen,   and  the  clear  harmonic   sound 
Quickens  the  radiant  past  within  my  brain; 

My  spirit  crosses  with  an  ardent  bound 
The  severing  ocean,  and  I  float  again 
On  Como  's  tranquil  breast  that  bears  no  stain. 

Now  dreamily  from  vineyard-terraced  heights 
Are  wafted  low  and  artless  vintage  airs; 

Blent  odors  lend  their  attar-sweet  delights, 
And  by  the  lake's  marge,  on  the  water-stairs, 
I  see  the  dusk-eyed  lovers  stand  in  pairs. 

I  view  Varenna's  snowy-white  cascade, 
And  bright  Bellagio  nestling  'neath  its  crown 

Of  laurel-woven,  ilex-darkened  shade ; 

I  mark  o'er  Lenno,  looking  grandly  down, 
The  pilgrim-haunted  church  of  old  renown. 


27 


Aye,  and  the  mountains  that  uplift  the  soul 
Above  the  gross  and  earthly,  I  behold; 

And  all  the  mighty  shapes  that  mass  and  roll 
Through  evanescent  cloudland  uncontrolled, 
And  sunset  skies  miraculous  with  gold. 

Dear  to  the  heart  are  memories  like  these 
Of  beauties  seen  upon  some  vanished  day, 

That,  like  the  carven  figures  of  a  frieze 

In  marble  wrought,  although  the  years  decay, 
From  fair  perfection  do  not  fade  away ! 


CYPRESSES 

i 

Against  the  sky  how  gloomily  they  stand, 
Those  dark  and  tapering  trees  that  one  may 
see 

By  many  a  shrine  in  the  Italian  land, 
Like  mourners  over  frail  mortality ! 

And  when  I  muse  on  how  their  shadows  fall, 
I  seem  to  hear  the  melancholy  stave 

Of  those  that  tower  by  the  Aurelian  wall 
Forever  grieving  over  Shelley's  grave! 

n 

Do  you  know  the  cypresses, 

Group  on  group,  and  row  on  row, — 
Know  the  stately,  lonely  trees 

Down  at  San  Vigilio  ? 

They  hold  compact  with  the  past, 
All  its  strange  deep  ebb  and  flow, — 

Silent,  secret  to  the  last 
Down  at  San  Vigilio. 

Question — will  they  answer? — nay! 

Plead — and  will  they  heed  you? — no! 
You  may  hearken  many  a  day 

Down  at  San  Vigilio. 

29 


Leave  them,  then,  and  let  them  stand 

Cryptic,  yea,  forever  so, 
Guardians  over  lake  and  land 

Down  at  San  Vigilio! 


30 


TREMOSINE 

Like    an    eagle    Tremosine    poises    o'er    Lake 
Garda's  tide, 
Hangs  upon  the  lofty  cliff's   edge  with  its 

campanile  tower; 
Wears  the  morning  like  a  rose-leaf,  evening 
like  a  poppy  flower; 
Shows  a  glowing  star  at  midnight  to  the  boat- 
men for  a  guide. 
Up  your  dizzy  path  I  clamber  for  another 
golden  hour, 
Tremosine,  Tremosine,  you  the  mountain's  nest- 
ling bride ! 


Up  your  dizzy  path  I  clamber,  but  I  clamber  it 
in  dreams, 

For  the  leaves  of  autumn  deepen,  and  the 
prescient  north-wind  blows, 

And  along  the  gusty  skyline  there's  a  cloudy 
threat  of  snows; 
While  I  hear  the  rush  and  roaring  and  the  gush 
of  pouring  streams, 

Tremosine,  Tremosine,  I  can  see  how  you  re- 
pose, 

Let  me,  then,  again  be  with  you  just  for  one 
more  golden  hour, 


31 


With  the  evening  drooping  o'er  you  like  a 
crimson  poppy  flower, 
And  the  great  blue  lake  before  you  and  below 
you  wrapt  in  dreams! 


AT  PAESTUM 

Across  the  sea  from  Sybaris  they  came, 

Oaring  their  galleys  with  long  sweep  and  slow, 

The  adventurous  Greeks  who  gave  the  place  a 
name 
More  than  two  thousand  shadowy  years  ago. 

Here,  sensing  beauty  in  the  insensate  stone, 
They  wrought  from  out  it,  span  on  perfect 
span, 

Pillar  and  plinth,  till,  as  the  flower  full  blown, 
Rose  temples  to  the  gods  Olympian. 

Despoiled     their     altars,     ravaged     are     their 
shrines ; 

The  lizard  and  the  snake  alone  glide  by; 
Yet  the  tall  columns  face  the  Apennines, 

And  still  the  old  Greek  grandeur  typify. 

In  their  Ionic  majesty  one  finds 

The  truest  tokens  that  the  past  can  show, — 

What  aspirations  kindled  mortal  minds 
More  than  two  thousand  shadowy  years  ago ! 


33 


AT  TWILIGHT-TIDE  UPON  COMO'S 
BREAST 

At  twilight-tide  upon  Como's  breast, 
A  shape  like  a  wondrous  butterfly, 
With  wings  wide  spread,  on  the  under-sky 

Of  the  lake  seemed  to  poise  and  rest. 

And  the  marvel  grew  as  I  saw  it  lie 

On  the  placid  breast  of  the  lake  afloat; — 
Was  it  really  the  dream  of  a  boat, 

Or  the  dream  of  a  butterfly? 


34 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DANTE 

This  is  the  house  where  Dante  dwelt 
In  the  old  days  at  Padua, 

And  saw  the  golden  morning  melt 

To  noon,   and  eve  grow  crimson — ah, 
How  sad  that  time  in  Padua! 


In  the  gray  courtyard  blooms  the  rose 
Through  the  warm  changes  of  the  sun; 

In  all  Italia 's  garden-close 

No  flower  was  fair  to  him  save  one, — 
She  whom  he  longed  to  look  upon. 


Below  his  window  is  the  tomb 
Of  Antenor,  of  ancient  race; 

And  you  may  picture  in  the  gloom 
The  weary  exile's  sombre  face 
Brooding  above  that  burial-place. 

And  you  may  picture  how  he  trod 
The  long  and  dim  arcades  below, 

In  cheerless  meditation  shod, 

The  while  the  press  went  to  and  fro 
To  pray  in  San  Antonio. 


35 


This  is  the  house  where  Dante  dwelt 
In  the  old  days  at  Padua, 

And   saw   the   golden   morning  melt 
To  noon,  and  eve  grow  crimson, — ah, 
Sad  hours,  sad  hours  at  Padua! 


36 


A  SEA-GULL  ON  LAKE  GARDA 

Over  Garda  a  gray  gull  flying 

With  glint  of  wing  in  the  gold  of  dawn; 
Over  Garda  a  gray  gull  crying 

Eerily  as  the  eve  drew  on! 

Far  from  shores  where  the  great  waves  welter 
When  storm  rides  up  to  the  trump  of  doom, 

Why  has  it  sought  this  lonely  shelter 

Where  the  beetling  crests  of  the  mountains 
loom? 

Here  there  is  beauty  above  and  under, 
Sapphire   water   and   sapphire   sky, 

Yet  not  the  sea  with  its  ancient  wonder 
Where  all  the  winds  of  the  world  go  by. 

But  haply  'tis  only  the  rover  longing, 

The  wander-lust  that  has  brought  it  here, 

The  vagrant  lure  that  goes  thrilling,  thronging, 
Through  my  own  heart  at  the  sweet  of  the 
year ; 

To  be   freed   from   paths   that  are   broad   and 
beaten, 
(Idro,  Garda, — wherever  you  will!) 
Where  wilding  attars  the  clear  airs  sweeten, 
And  gipsy  music  comes  over  the  hill! 
37 


All  of  this  from  a  gray  gull  flying 
Over  Gar  da  at  glint  of  dawn; 

All  of  this  from  a  gray  gull  crying 
Over  Garda  as  eve  drew  on ! 


38 


LET  THERE  BE  DREAMS  TO-DAY 

"Let  there  he  dreams!"  one  said.     I  answered, 

"yea, 
Let  there  be  dreams  to-day, 
Fair  dreams  that  come  and  go 
As  silently  as  snow, 
And  one — this  one — shall  stay 
Within  my  hearts  for  aye  and  aye ! ' ' 

This  one  dear  dream ! — 0  bugler,  call  the  dawn ! 

0  trumpeter,  sound  summons  to  the  night! 
These  twain  are  blended  for  my  soul's  delight, 
And  never  shall  be  gone! 

These  twain  o  'er  Garda  with  the  sun  and  moon. 

1  have  known  many  a  boon, 

But  no  such  guerdon  as  this  dream  confers. 
You  who  are  beauty's  faithful  worshippers, 
Listen,  for  rapture  stirs 
Within  me  at  the  conjuring  of  this  dream! 
Sun-gleam,   moon-beam 
On  Garda  that  is  loveliness  supreme ! 
Gaze  upon  Garda 's  bosom !     Gaze  with  awe ! 
For  surely  mortal  vision  never  saw 
So  sapphirine  a  pool  of  under-sky! 
Mark  you  where  Garda 's  mountains  lift  on  high, 
And  the  bold  eagles  fly 
I'  the  sun's  fiery  eye, 
Here,  if  it  be  on  earth,  is  majesty ! 
39 


So  let  me  dream  my  dream  of  dreams,  and  slake 
My  sense  of  beauty's  thirst,  most  perfect  lake! 
And  let  the  moon  and  sun 
In  wondrous  antiphon 
Repeat  and  yet  repeat 

Their  tale,   and  make  this  miracle  complete! 
In  this,  my  vista-dream,  shall  Riva  still 
Sit  by  its  crescent  harbor.     From  its  hill 
Shall   Malcesine's   ancient   castle   throw- 
Its  bastioned  shadow  on  the  lake  below, 
And  isolated  San  Vigilio 
From  the  deep  cincture  of  its  cypress  bower 
Face  evermore  the  radiant  sunset  hour, 
Looking  where  Salo,  amid  verdant  vines, 
In  its  blue  haven  like  a  jewel  shines. 
Still  shall  Gordone,  among  spreading  palms, 
Take  the  eternal  airs  of  spring  for  alms, 
And  Sirmione  pine,  with  backward  gaze, 
For  the  renascence  of  old  Roman  days, 
And  sweet  Catullus  of  the  liquid  phrase ! 

> 
Even  the  veriest  hind 

May  catch  some  marvel  from  the  crooning  wind 
Haunting  the  heath  and  hearth  at  evenfall, 
When  twilight  shapes  its  etchings  on  the  wall. 
Who  was  not  born  a  dreamer  in  some  wise, 
Let  him  be  pitied !     Dull  and  dark  his  way. 
But  he  who  sees  with  wide  or  lidded  eyes, 
Waking  or  sleeping,  some  ethereal  ray, 

40 


A  happiness  is  his  none  may  gainsay ; 
And  so  for  me,  in  their  all-golden  guise, 
Let  there  be  dreams  to-day! 


41 


IMPRESSIONS 


In   Riva-town  the  morning  came 
Like  a  great  saffron  rose  of  flame; 
Each  peak  was  as  a  pharos-fire; 
The  valleys  murmured  like  a  lyre. 


The  inverted  chalice  of  the  sky 
Burned  brilliant  lapis-lazuli, 
And  under  the  resplendent  day 
The  lake,  a  liquid  sapphire,  lay. 


In  Riva-town  the  noon  was  white 
As  lilies  blanching  in  the  light, 
Save  where  the  shade  lay  long  and  cool 
Like  slumberous  water  in  a  pool. 

The  air  was  heavy  with  the  scent 
Of  rose  and  jasmine  attar  blent, 
While  the  shy,  swift  chameleon 
Ran  through  all  colors  in  the  sun. 


42 


in 

In  Riva-town  the  evening  fell 
To  soft  caesuras  of  a  bell, 
While  up  the  heaven's  blue  lagoon 
Sailed  that  gold  galleon,  the  moon. 

The  shallop  stars  swam  in  its  wake, 
Reduplicated  in  the  lake, 
Till  naught  but  dreams  went  up  and  down 
About  the  streets  of  Riva-town. 


43 


THE  BASTION 

From  the  slopes  a  beetling  bastion  beckoned 
Reared  by  sturdy  hands  when  Venice's  name 

'Mong  the  powers  of  earth  to  none  was  second, 
Such  the  zenith  glory  of  her  fame. 

1 '  Surely, ' '  said  I,  ' '  I  am  bid  to  clamber ; 

I  must  grasp  my  pilgrim  staff  and  fare!" 
So  I  chose  a  morn  when  azure-amber 

Were  the  cloudless  heights  of  upper  air ; 

So  I  left  behind  the  paven  highways 
Where  calm  Riva  broods  away  the  hours, 

Winding  upward  through  the  narrow  byways 
'Twixt  the  purple-clustered  vineyard-bowers. 

Like  great  stairs  the  terraces  ascended; 

One  by  one  I  set  my  foot  to  climb ; 
From  the  olive  trees,  the  while  I  wended, 

The  cicada  tossed  its  strident  rhyme. 

Little  greetings  cheered  me  from  the  grasses; 

Children  flung  me,  as  I  strode  along, 
From  above  (the  dusk-eyed  lads  and  lasses) 

Their  sweet  alms  of  soft  Italian  song. 


So  at  last  I  scaled  the  path  to  wonder, — 
Wonder  of  a  sapphire  lake  that  lay 

Like  a  flawless  jewel  resting  under 
The  wide  arch  of  the  expanding  day ; 

Wonder  of  a  plain  that  swept  and  billowed 

Like  lost  edens  of  dear  dreams  gone  by, 
Of  vast  mountain  summits  that  seemed  pillowed 

On  the  bosom  of  the  leaning  sky. 

,■ 
As  I  looked  from  my  exalted  station, 

(Now  had  burst  mid-morn  in  radiant  glow) 
On  me  flooded  the  full  revelation 

Why  the  bastion  beckoned  from  below. 

Here  was  beauty,  here  transcendant  glory, 
Here  was  majesty  and  here  was  awe, 

Ever  changing,  yet  not  transitory, 
Such  as  Moses  on  the  mountain  saw! 


45 


A  SAILOR 

A  silvery  wind  in  the  olives, 

And  a  blue  wind  on  the  sea, 
And  the  cliffs  and  the  coves  of  Capri 

Call  to  me. 

To  the  maids  in  the  ripening  vineyards 

A  hand- wave  and  a  hail; 
Run  up  on  the  Santa  Maria 

A  saffron  sail! 

All  the  maids  of  Castellamare, 

Howe'er  so  fair  they  be, 
What  are  they  when  one  maid  in  Capri 

Calls  to  me! 


46 


GABRIEL 

From  one  of  Titian's  canvasses  there  shines 

The  glory  of  an  angel, — Gabriel ; 

How  strange  the  contradiction,  for  they  tell 
That  he  who  there  is  limned  with  faultless  lines 
Had,  while  he  dwelt  within  the  earth's  confines, 

A  face  of  heaven,  but  a  heart  of  hell! 


47 


AT  THE  VATICAN 

(August,  1914) 

Where  the  Italian  skies 
Arch  with  their  azure  span, 
Silent  of  lip  he  lies 
There  in  the  Vatican. 
What  of  his  high  estate? 
That  does  not  make  him  great ! 
Prelates  and  popes  and  kings, 
They  are  but  petty  things 
Unless  in  the  mortal  urn 
The  fires  immortal  burn; 
Sympathy,  charity,  faith, 
The   simpler,   larger   trust; 
Love  that  mounts  like  a  wraith 
Over  the  grosser  dust! 
Place  and  pomp  and  power, 
They  are  of  little  worth; 
Creeds  abide  for  an  hour; 
Deeds,  they  sweeten  the  earth! 
Not  for  the  robes  he  wore, 
Not  for  his  churchly  ties, 
But  that  his  fair  life  bore 
All  that  is  good  in  man, 
Do  we  honor  him  who  lies 
There  in  the  Vatican! 


48 


A  SAINT 

Here  is  the  cloister-cell  wherein  he  bruised 
His  shrunken  body  that  his  eyes  might  see ; 

Here  is  the  cloister-walk  wherein  he  mused 
On  immortality. 

And  here  the  cloister-garden  where  for  hours 
He  toiled,  intent  upon  his  soul's  repose, 

Where  still  his  sweet  and  saintly  spirit  flowers 
In  one  perennial  rose. 


SO  WE  CAME  TO  MALCESINE 

So  we  came  to  Malcesine,  and  our  slim  barque 

furled  its  sail 
Underneath  the  castle  ramparts,  and  we  heard 

a  nightingale, 
Hidden  in  an  ilex  coppice,  lift  the  burden  of  its 

tale. 

And   the   mountains  seemed   to  listen,   looming 

height  on  looming  height, 
And  our  yearning  hearts  responded  to  the  cry  of 

love's  delight, 
As  we  came  to  Malcesine  at  the  drooping  of  the 

night. 


50 


PRIMAVERA 

Primavera I  primavera ! 

Thus  the  golden  thrushes  call 
In  cool  sallies  down  the  valleys 

Where  the   Umbrian  fountains  fall. 
Ah,  the  rapture  that  they  capture, — 

Wanderers  by  slope  and  shore ! 
Prim  ave  ra  !  prim  av  e  ra ! 

Spring  is  in  the  south  once  more. 

Primavera!  primavera ! 

Roses  by  the  Roman  wall 
Yield  the  guerdon  of  the  burden 

Of  an  attar  magical. 
Life's  deep  measure  brimmed  with  pleasure 

Offers  nothing  to  deplore; 
Primavera !  primavera ! 

Spring  is  in  the  south  once  more. 

Primavera!  primavera! 

'Tis  the  heart  refrain  of  all, 
Lord  or  lowly,  base  or  holy, 

Where  Calabrian  peaks  are  tall. 
Lads  and  lasses  down  the  passes 

Lilt  love's  olden  lyric  lore; 
Primavera!  primavera ! 

Spring  is  in  the  south  once  more. 


51 


THE  DANCING  FAUN 

They  took  him  from  the  shrouding  earth 

Anigh  a  Roman  villa  old ; 
What   sylvan   silence   gave   him   birth 

No  wreathed  sibyl  ever  told. 
Yet  he  was  surely  forest  born, 

And  roamed  the  woodland  wild  and  wide, 
Dancing  to  nimble  pipes  at  morn 

And  in  the  hush  of  eventide. 

How  fair  he  was  these  snowy  lines 

In  their  unmarred  perfection  show, 
Flitting  athwart  the  dusk  of  pines 

Those  far  forgotten  years  ago. 
Mayhap  an  envious  god  in  wrath, 

Seeing  him  foot  the  alleys  dim, 
Beguiled  him  down  some  tangled  path, 

And  put  this  marble  spell  on  him. 

Perchance  (who  knows?)  he  there  was  found 

Within  the  bosom  of  the  glade, 
With  requiem  songbirds  singing  round, 

And  sighing  reeds  that  sadly  swayed ; 
Perchance  in  wonderment  they  bore 

To  Rome  his  icy  image  down, 
And  placed  him  in  a  square  before 

The  marvelling  imperial  town. 
52 


And  since  no  sculptor  dared  to  say 

His  art  had  shaped  a  form  so  fine, 
An  auction  strange  was  held  one  day 

Beneath  the  stately  Palatine. 
Then  he  whose  wont  had  been  to  rove 

At  will  the  winy  woodland  air 
Was  set  within  a  well-trimmed  grove 

To  make  a  villa  garden  fair. 

This  lonely  lot  he  long  endured 

Till  Rome  was  ravaged  of  her  crown, 
And  Vandal  hands,  by  beauty  lured, 

In  mad  exultance  dragged  him  down. 
Then  it  was  his,  alas,  to  know 

Of  under-earth  the  blinding  pain, 
Till  fate,  that  aimed  a  toiler's  blow, 

Bestowed  the  golden  sky  again! 

Sole  remnant  he  of  all  the  race 

That  once  held  endless  holiday 
In  bosky  and  in  bowery  place 

When  airs  were  fragrant  with  the  May. 
Ah,  who  can  say  what  visions  still 

Of  bondless  hours  his  chill  veins  warm! 
Fair  dusk  and  dawn  dreams  yet  may  thrill 

The  seeming  coldness  of  his  form. 


53 


We  ask  in  vain.     As  mute  he  stands 

As  when  the  curse  was  on  him  laid, 
And   'neath  the  god's  remorseless  hands 

His  gladness  ceased  within  the  glade. 
Was  his  a  crime  that  seems  so  pure? 

"Nay!  nay!"  his  lip,  though  silent,  saith 
Then  why,  forsooth,  must  he  endure 

Forevermore  this  marble  death? 


54 


A  LOVER  OF  LUCREZIA 

I  mind  me  how  that  she  would  come, 
When  all  the  hyacinth  dusk  was  dumb, 
Down  sunken  cypress-mazes;  then 

The  sudden  nightingales  would  sing 
Their  loves  again  and  yet  again 
With  their  perfervid  passioning, 
With  their  ecstatic  burden, — ah, 
Lucrezia !     Lucrezia ! 

I  mind  me  how  the  kiss  of  her 
Was  sweet,  then  bitter  as  is  myrrh; 
How  all  her  Hybla  words  were  fraught 

With  subtleties,  and  how  delight 
Died  ere  the  dream  divine  was  caught, 

Died,  and  was  whelmed  and  drowned  in  night, 
Drowned  in  death's  black  abysses, — ah, 
Lucrezia !     Lucrezia ! 

I  mind  me  how  her  gleaming  eyes 

Gloated  above  mine  agonies; 

And  how  her  slow,  suave  smile  became 

A  serpent  look  intolerable; 
And  though  I  burn  in  endless  flame, 
I  shall  await  her  down  in  hell 
With  itching  hands  to  clutch  her, — ah, 
Lucrezia !     Lucrezia ! 


55 


BENVENUTO 

I  once  knew  Benvenuto.     He  and  I 

Both  wrought  in  bronze.     He  was  a  seemly 
fellow, 

Skillful  as  Angelo,  deft  as  Donatello, 
Yet  scorning  fame,  and  letting  time  slip  by 
In  dreams,  as  Arno  doth  when  eve  is  nigh ; 

Often  a  poet,  and  then — Punchinello. 

Over  a  flask  of  Lacrima  Christi,  mellow; 
Laughterful,  loveable,  open  as  the  sky. 

One    night   when   we    were    wandering    in    the 
Ghetto, 
We  met  a  ruffian  whom  they  called  II  Bruto 
Who  beat  a  cringing  stripling  of  a  boy. 
I  saw  my  friend  was  fingering  his  stiletto, 

Then,  in  a  flash,  he  thrust  the  shining  toy 
'Twixt    the    man's    ribs.     There    you    have 
Benvenuto ! 


56 


POPPEA 

Then  spake  Poppea  wantonly,  and  said, 

She  that  was  doomed  and  dead 

Dim  centuries  since,  "bring  thou  to  me" 

(This  was  in  dreams) 

"Some  subtle  lectuary 

Meet  for  abandonment!" 

And  I  uprose  and  went, 

Being  a  slave  within  that  pillared  place 

Where  golden  streams 

In  basins  wrought  of  traced  chalcedony 

Bubbled  and  sparkled  with  alluring  grace. 

I  came  to  one 

Who  as  a  statue  seemed,  wrought  out  of  night, 

Awful  to  look  upon. 

He  handed  me  a  chalice  of  the  dye 

Of  lapis-lazuli. 

"Take  it,"  he  cried,  "herein  is  all  delight!" 

I  took  and  bore  it,  and  Poppea  quaffed, 

The  while  she  laughed. 

"This  is  love's  dearest  philter,"  then  quoth  she 

Triumphantly, 

As,  with  swift-ebbing  breath, 

She  reached  out  arms  to  Death. 


57 


A  ROMAN  TWILIGHT 

The  purple  tints  of  twilight  over  Rome; 
Against  the  sunset  great  Saint  Peter's  dome, 
And   through   the   gateways   peasants   wending 
home. 

Shadows  that  gather  round  the  Aventine; 
And  just  above  the  dim  horizon  line 
The  star  of  Hesper,  like  a  light  divine. 

A  perfume  faint  as  of  forgotten  sweets, 

As  though  there  came,  far-borne  through  lonely 

streets, 
The  breath  of  violets  from  the  grave  of  Keats! 


A  CRIPPLE 

You  note  yon  cripple  by  the  Duomo  door, 
With  his  bent  body,  like  an  olive  bough 
"Warped  by  the  winter  wind  ? 

He  has  a  soul 
Straight  as  a  cypress  sapling  on  a  hill 
Limned  in  an  arrowy  line  against  the  morn ! 


59 


A  MOUNTEBANK 

Mark  you  that  mountebank  who  hugs  his  fiddle 
As  though  the  instrument  were  an  Amati  f 
He  hails  from  the  bleak  heights  above  Frascati, 
And  is,  they  tell  me,  something  of  a  riddle. 

<• 
Were  a  dumb  thing  abused,  he  'd  act  the  hero, 
Incensed,   with   hand   and   foot   the   offender 

spurning ; 
But  if  it  chanced,  we'll  say,  that  Rome  were 
burning, 
He'd  sit  and  play  his  fiddle  as  did  Nero. 


60 


ENIGMA 

'Twas  a  chance  meeting  in  a  gallery ; 

He  seemed  all  charm  and  blithe  urbanity. 

He  spoke  of  Titian  and  of  Angelo, 

Of  Guido  and  of  Fra  Angelico, 

Of  Botticelli,  and  his  features  shone 

With  such  a  look  as  young  Endymion, 

Straying  the  meads  of  Latmos,  might  have  had. 

But  when  I  mentioned  Borgia,  the  blood-mad 

Insatiate  Ezzelino,  and  the  grim 

And  cruel  Malatesta,  over  him 

A  change  as  swift  as  sudden  lightning  came, 

And  then  was  gone.     I  never  knew  his  name. 

He  seemed  all  charm  and  blithe  urbanity, 

And  yet  I  often  wonder — 


61 


CHIMES  AT  PADUA 

Dim  falls  the  violet  twilight  hour, 
The  evening  air  grows  cool,  and,  ah, 

How  sweet  from  San  Andrea's  tower 
The  chimes  float  over  Padua ! 

The  dusk  descends,  the  white  stars  flower 
Above  the  red-tiled  roofs,  and,  ah, 

How  fair  from  San  Andrea's  tower 
The  chimes  drift  over  Padua ! 

And  while  night  lessens  hour  by  hour 
Till  blooms  the  golden  morning,  ah, 

How  soft  from  San  Andrea's  tower 
The  chimes  waft  over  Padua  ! 


LIONETTO 


LIONETTO 

(A  Hospital  in  Venice,  A.  D.  1400.     Lionetto 
and  a  Priest.     Lionetto  speaks.) 

I  am  called  Lionetto,  and  I  dwell 
Upon  a  narrow  street  that  blindly  ends 
Behind  San  Giacometto.     Speak  my  name 
On  the  Rialto,  in  the  stately  square 
Through  which  all  Venice  passes  in  to  pray 
Beneath   the   portals   where    the   bronze   steeds 

stand, 
And  you  will  learn  of  me.     My  gondola 
Was  once  the  fleetest  on  the  water-ways; 
My  hand  was  deftest  with  the  long  lithe  oar. 
But  that  is  past. 

" Haste!"  said  you? 

With  mine  eyes 
I  seemed  to  read  that  word  upon  your  lips, 
That  word  and  others,  so  that  now  I  know 
My  little  lamp  of  life  will  soon  die  out, 
And  darkness  close  about  me.     Note  you  not 
How    speech    eludes    my    hearing?     Mine    own 

voice 
Sounds  faint,  like  far  off  murmur  of  the  waves 
At  night  upon  the  Lido.     Nearer! — stoop! 
I  would  not  have  you  miss  one  syllable, 
Lest  missing  one,  your  absolution  fail! 


6S 


How  happily  together  she  and  I 

Lived  with  our  winsome  boy,  a  roguish  lad 

Whose  added  summers  not  yet  numbered  four ! 

That  was  before  her  cruel  father  came, 

He  who  at  Pavia  had  tarried  long 

As  the  Visconti's  servile  underling. 

In  that  glad  time  the  days  with  laggard  feet 

Dragged  ever  by,  till  I  could  get  me  home, 

And  feel  my  fair  boy's  arms  about  my  neck, 

And  with  a  greeting  fond  give  back  her  smile. 

Oft  in  the  quiet  of  the  summer  eves 

Below  the  marble  of  some  palace  stair, 

While    I    touched    lightly    the    guitar's    sweet 

strings, 
Would  she  uplift  the  rapture  of  her  voice, 
And  spell  the  night  with  passionate  melodies. 
And  oft  have  lovely  ladies  overleaned 
From  balconies  silk-screened,  soft-praising  her ; 
And  oft  have  nobles  from  the  wide-thrown  doors 
Tossed  out  a  shining  disc  of  orient  gold, 
And  bid  her  buy  some  bauble.     That  was  ere 
Her  cruel  father  came  to  bide  with  us. 

After  the  mocking  profile  of  his  face 
First  cast  upon  our  wall  its  evil  shade, 
She  never  was  the  same.     Night  following  night 
I  met  her  waning  welcome,  but,  dull  fool, 
Deemed  some  slight  ailment  vexed  her,  till  one 
eve, 


As  slow  and  silent  I  passed  up  the  stair, 
I  heard  her  father  pour  within  her  ear 
The  subtle  philter  of  a  lying  tale; — 
How  I  feigned  love — was  false — spent  idle  days 
With  some  light  paramour,  for  then  it  chanced 
The  sun  of  fortune  shone  not  down  on  me, 
And  I  brought  little  home  for  hungry  mouths. 
Then  anger  leaped   from  leash,   for  when  the 

hound, 
Sensing  my  fury,  whimpered  cringingly 
That  he  but  heard  these  things  low-noised  about, 
Did  not  believe  them,  was  but  asking  her 
Could  she  believe  them,  I  cast  back  the  lie 
Into  his  leering  face,  and  bade  him  go, 
And  darken  ne'er  again  a  door  of  mine. 
So  crept  he  out,  not  answering  me  a  word. 

And  she  ?     What  said  she  ?     Naught.     She  made 

no  sign 
While  I  was  speaking,  and  when  I  had  done 
Only  looked  at  me  with  her  large  calm  eyes 
In  mute  reproach  that  was  more  hard  to  bear 
Than  all  her  father's  calumnies.     The  thought 
That  ire  had  made  me  not  quite  just  to  him, 
That  haply  some  malicious  knave  had  sown 
This  festering  seed  within  the  old  man's  brain 
Brought  sharp  regret  to  harrow  me. 

1 '  Forgive, 
Forgive  me,  sweet!"  remorsefully  I  cried; 
67 


"I'll  win  him  back,  and  crave  his  pardon  here." 
With  that  I  went,  and  sought  him  near  and  far 
In  the  low  haunts  I  knew  he  frequented, 
But  found  him  not. 

"He  will  return,"  I  said, 
Communing  with  myself,  "the  morrow  morn. 
Aye,  even  now  he  may  have  come  to  beg 
My  patience  with  him ! ' ' 

Thus  I,  homeward-bent, 
Dreamed  blindly  of  forgiveness  mutual. 

Mean  whiles   the    night   shut   in,    a   grim,    dank 

night, 
And  all  the  myrmidons  of  darkness  drew 
Their  folds  about  the  city.     Grisly  fear 
Darted  from  ambush,  clutching  at  my  heart, 
When  I  beheld  from  the  accustomed  pane 
No  loving  taper  fling  its  welcoming  light. 
Onward  I  stumbled,  as  a  spent  man  fares 
At  dusk-fall  up  some  riven  mountain  slope 
Unguided  by  the  beckoning  of  a  star, 
And  lo, — chill  emptiness!     The  only  voice 
That  answer  gave  to  my  beseeching  cries 
Was  mocking  echo. 

0  those  pitiless  hours, 
Those    anguished    hours    until    the    midnight 

stormed 
The  windless  silence  from  an  unseen  tower ! 
What  awful  doubts  in  grim  procession  stalked 
68 


Throughout   my  mind,   slaying   each  new-born 

hope ! 
What  dismal  fancies  rose  and  grew  and  grasped 
My  strained  imagination,  till  my  brain 
Reeled  to  the  verge  of  madness ! 

Would  she  come  f — 
I  prayed.     I  cried  in  frenzy  unto  God, 
Upbraided     him.     I     cursed.     Then     midnight 

struck. 

My    sleep    was    phantom-peopled.     Down    dim 

aisles, 
Endless,  and  set  with  somber  cypress  shades, 
I  wandered  amid  sad  and  sheeted  forms, 
Forever  seeking  one  I  failed  to  find. 
I  wakened  suddenly.     A  sullen  morn 
Peered  through  the  casement,   and   I  heard  a 

voice, 
His  voice,  her  father's  voice.     Upright  I  sprang, 
Athrill  with  joy,  but  when  I  saw  his  face 
I  felt  joy  sicken  to  a  pale  despair, 
Then  die,  and  quickly  nascent  in  its  stead 
Reared   those   dire   twins,   black  rage   and  red 

revenge. 
Yet  had  I  curbed  these  furies  had  his  tongue 
Not  spat  forth  venom.     How  the  demon  laughed, 
Flung  his  foul  boastings  in  my  very  face 
That  he  had  lured  her  from  me.     To  what  end 
This  most  unnatural  deed  had  been  wrought  out 

69 


He  gave  not  forth,  nor  yet  divulged  he  why 
Toward  me  he  harbored  hatred.     Did  he  deem 
Me  dull  and  dotard  that  he  tarried  thus 
And  trifled  with  my  heart-strings? 

He  had  learned 
All  craft,  all  crime,  all  hideous  wickedness 
From  the  Visconti  while  at  Pavia ; 
Yet  when  I  gave  that  furious  tiger-spring, 
My  hot  hands  itching  for  his  flabby  throat, 
Of  what  availed  his  wiles? 

I  strangled  him, 
And  cast  him  from  me  as  one  would  a  rat. 
And    then —    What    said    you?     Trial?     Mur- 
der? nay! 
Venice  has  deep  lagoons  that  tell  no  tales, 
And  who  was  there  to  miss  him  ? 

She? 

Just  God, 
Was  this  thine  ever-sure,  stern  meting-out 
Of  punishment,  that  where  the  long  sea-wall 
Across  the  tides  looks  in  the  eyes  of  dawn, 
The  cruel  water  should  give  up  its  dead  ? 
They  found  her  there,  and  in  her  arms  our  boy, 
Our  fair-haired  boy. 

How  very  cold  it  grows ! 
The  doctors  say  this  woeful  hurt  of  mine 
Is  slow  in  healing.     Night  has  come  so  soon. — 
Dear  Christ,  have  pity  on  my  soul ! 

(The  Priest)  Amen! 

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